trace (vestiges)

If anyone is to ask, Miles has always staunchly believed that he is not good with children. He will assert this time and time again, almost proudly stating that he does not know how to connect with children, that he is unsure how to best win them over or care for them. Their reactions are so volatile, after all; without the experience of life to harden them, to guide them, they take everything to heart in a manner which honestly frightens him, as someone whose shell has only begun to crack within the past two years after a lifetime of being treated as an adult.

Perhaps this is why he has absolutely no idea what to make of Pearl grabbing onto his hand and jumping up and down in giddy glee. "Are you a prince, Mr. Ejiworth?!" she cries, eyes wide, mouth stretched in the widest, most innocent smile he has ever seen. She jumps on the tips of her toes, craning her little neck as she tries to take in as much of Miles' lavish home as she can.

"Um, no, Pearl," he replies, frankly flabbergasted. Still, he cannot help but admit silently that there is something painfully sweet about her unabashed wonder, so when Phoenix beckons her past the driveway and into the house, Miles makes sure to push her gently along so as to spur her onwards until she reaches Phoenix, grabbing onto the attorney's hand and allowing him to pull her into the front door.

With the little girl inside, Miles does his best to pull the ingredients out of the car. Why they are using his kitchen rather than the one at Phoenix's office to make Maya's birthday cake, he does not know; however, with Phoenix asking to use the space so sincerely, there is little he can do to say no.

With a sigh, he brings the bags of flour and sugar and vanilla and whatnot into the house, smiling ruefully at Phoenix's awaiting hands. Pearl watches him, eyes sparkling, practically bouncing with barely-restrained curiosity oozing from every pore. Seeing this, Miles sighs and murmurs, "Do not explore the second floor, but do as you will down here, Pearl."

Immediately, Pearl shrieks in delight and tears off down the hall. "I've never been in a house this big before, it's like a castle!" she cries, exploring every nook and cranny before he can even blink.

Miles raises a brow at Phoenix. The attorney shrugs. "In Kurain, her home is huge, but very empty because of the traditional lifestyle. Not much is around, in all honestly. Your place looks like something out of a catalogue in comparison." He raises his voice and calls out to Pearl, "Just make sure you don't run around corners and break anything, okay, Pearls?"

To Miles' surprise, Pearl skids to a stop, a strange semblance of shame and regret blossoming onto her face. "I won't," she replies so softly the duo can scarcely hear her. "I won't do what I did to Mystic Ami." Then, she trudges mournfully to the dining table and clambers into one of the chairs, resting her chin against the smooth, polished surface.

Phoenix groans, helping Miles pick up half of the supplies. "What happened?" Miles whispers as they carry the ingredients to the kitchen.

"Her mother tried to frame Maya a few months before you came back from Germany," Phoenix explains dryly. "During the case, Pearl accidentally broke a vase that is supposed to contain their ancestor's spirit. She's still depressed about it, I guess."

Miles' heart twinges for the little girl. Instantly, he is brought back to being eleven years old- of standing in Manfred von Karma's study, flinching with tears in his eyes as a toppled, shattered vase lays behind him, his mentor's thunderous voice screaming through the household, branding him every manner of filth he can think to lay upon this child. Miles had claimed guilt simply to protect Franziska from the ensuing punishment, but he had never been prepared for that level of berating-

"Did you yell at her?" he asks as he pulls mixing bowls out of their cupboard.

Shaking his head, Phoenix chuckles, "Are you kidding me? Because she did that, we were able to nab the culprit. I'm sure it was her mother who trained her to be so fearful of making mistakes, though." The rueful regret in his eyes is clear as day as the attorney slowly sets the ingredients onto the kitchen island.

With this information, Miles gulps, sighs, deflates. Then, he musters every modicum of confidence he has in his body (scarcely any, for how does one even talk to children? Usually Phoenix and Maya act as the buffer between Miles and Pearl) and walks over to the little forlorn girl. "Are you done with exploring?" he says stiffly.

Pearl's face screams no despite her head nodding in response.

Miles takes a moment to examine the little girl. In her lap sits her intertwined hands, fidgeting and nervous and filled with tamped-down energy; her legs quiver as if she longs to swing them back and forth, but has been trained not to. It is pitiful- it is pathetic-

It is too much like Miles himself, growing up in Germany.

Sighing, he squats down so he can look up into Pearl's face. She glances over in surprise at this sudden intrusion. "You know," he says wryly, "I don't really have any priceless things in this house. If you break anything, I am more than capable of buying it anew."

Slowly, she murmurs, "But Mr. Nick says he can't-"

"And in comparison to Wright, you probably could call me a prince," he says with a wry smile. Patting her hair, he says, "Now, we don't want you running into things and breaking them because you might hurt yourself. Wright- we don't want to see that. So be careful, but the first floor is yours, alright?"

It takes a few moments for his permission to sink in, but when it does, her face becomes radiant. The little girl hops onto her feet, giddily nodding. "Can I go explore then?"

He stands, wincing as his knees creak in protest. Maybe I should be going with Wright to the gym, he thinks absently. "Go ahead. If Wright calls for you, then come help decorate the cake, alright?"

And just like that, Pearl beams, running off into the distance. Miles rolls his eyes in fond irritation, walking back to find Phoenix whisking the dry ingredients together, a proud smile barely hidden upon his thin lips. "If you want to say something, then say it," Miles mutters, taking the electric hand mixer from a shelf and attaching the whisks.

"It's nothing," Phoenix sing-songs in response. "I just-"

Miles does not have a chance to look at the man before a quick but tender kiss lands upon his cheek. "I guess if anything happens, I really can leave you with the girls, huh?" he says, brows furrowed so warmly that the mere sight of it heats up Miles' skin.

Flushing, the prosecutor turns back to pouring the wet ingredients into his own mixing bowl, as per Phoenix's recipe. "I'll keep my promise," he says firmly.

For a moment, Phoenix merely nestles his face against Miles' shoulder, breathing in deep- then, he pulls away, cheery as always. "Let's get this cake going. She's been excited all week to decorate it," the man says, eyes shining with gratitude and what looks suspiciously like unshed tears.

That softens Miles' embarrassment. "Sounds like a doable plan."

And that is that.